In the last dream he’d sent me, the Prophet gave me the impression of the location of a cave on the shore just to the east of the city of Vulkhel Guard. And it’s certainly a fine day for a stroll on the beach in the opposite direction from the dolmen. I even find a treasure chest washed up ashore! With… well, not particularly impressive treasure in it, but hey, I won’t turn up my nose at pocket change.

The cave, which the Prophet referred to as the harborage, isn’t far from town at all. I have to wonder if he had to incinerate some smugglers or something out of it before he could take up residence. This is the sort of cave smugglers like to frequent, after all. And I doubt the Prophet was the one who left the bottles and broken crates scattered about the ground, but hey, maybe he decided to celebrate escaping from Coldharbour hard.

“I hear familiar footsteps,” the Prophet says.

“Is there something odd about the way I walk?” I ask. “Or is that just your way of saying you can sense me, like, magically? How’d you stumble on this place, anyway?”

“It had the right smell about it,” he says.

I sniff the air. “Smells like moon sugar rum to me.”

He ignores me and starts going on about wanting me to enter his mind to understand past events, and this sounds really creepy but whatever. Unfortunately, his mind looks a lot like Coldharbour, and I flinch involuntarily when I see the mindscape around me.

“You find the scenery distressing?” the Prophet says. “My apologies. Be assured that this is not actually Coldharbour.”

“Okay, one, if you chose to make this ‘place’ look like this, why would you choose this?” I wonder. “And if you didn’t, why does your mind look like Coldharbour?”

“Do not be alarmed,” the Prophet says. “Molag Bal left his mark upon me, but—”

“Never mind, let’s just get on with this,” I say.

He starts going on about how he woke up at some abbey with no memory, blah blah, became a priest, blah blah, read some weird scrolls until he went blind because why would you keep reading weird scrolls if they made you go blind? His only answer to that is that the weird scrolls gave him insights into the future or something.

“Useless,” I mutter. “You sacrificed your sight, for what? A fleeting glimpse of something that isn’t set in stone?”

So then he starts going on about destiny again and I would really like to hit him about now. Oh, destiny, destiny, destiny. Fuck destiny. What has destiny ever done for me?

Perhaps noticing my disinterest and impatience, he changes the subject. Now he’s talking something about Dragonborn, Amulet of Kings, Imperial City…

“Prophet, I think you’re forgetting something,” I say.

“What is that, Vestige?” the Prophet asks.

“I have been trapped in Coldharbour for thousands of years,” I point out. “I only have the vaguest sketch of the political situation and recent history. I don’t actually know half of what you’re even talking about.”

“Ah,” the Prophet says. “Yes. Right. Of course. I had hoped to get you up to speed on recent events, but forget you don’t even know about the less recent events. I’m afraid you’ll need to read some books yourself to fill in the gaps as there’s only so much I can tell you at once, and there are things I need to show you in this setting that you cannot simply read in a book.”

“Right, fine,” I say. “Go on and show me what you absolutely needed to show me in your mindscape here like this that you couldn’t just tell me.”

I wish I were able to take a notepad with me inside this mindscape to be able to take notes on all the random things he mentions in passing that I’ll need to look up in detail later, but as it is, it’s hopeless. There’s too many names and faces to keep straight. I can’t even remember my own fake name, how am I supposed to remember Mannimumble and Varen Awhateverus? There’s a reason why I always called my friends by their initials.

At any rate, the important bit is that Mannimumble tricked Varen into doing something or other with the Amulet of Kings that made a big explosion and let Molag Bal start this whole Planemeld thing.

“Well, that was a very flashy memory, that,” I say. “So which one were you?”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

He’s taken aback for a moment. “This is one of the visions that the Elder Scrolls presented to me.”

“Right, okay, good,” I say. “Because if you were about to say that you were this Mannimumble fellow somehow, I’d be obligated to hit you.”

“I am not Mannimarco,” the Prophet says with a sigh. “I am, obviously, not even an Altmer.”

And then he feels the need to show me an image of one of the Dark Anchors falling, while continuing to ramble something about somebody named Alessia. There’s another name I’m not sure if I’m supposed to know. Did she live before I died, or after? Either way, I don’t remember anything about her.

“Yes, I’ve already seen the Dark Anchors,” I say. “Or, one of them at least. There’s one just outside Vulkhel Guard. The Fighters Guild have been smacking it every time it pops up. Or… pops down. Whatever.”

“And now you see why we must stop Molag Bal, or our world is doomed,” the Prophet says.

“Whoa, whoa, back up there!” I raise my hands. “What’s this ‘we’ you’re talking about here? How the fuck do you think I’m supposed to help anyone stop a Daedric Prince? If I were capable of doing any such thing, don’t you think I would have done so long ago?”

“The Elder Scrolls have indicated your importance—”

“The Elder Scrolls don’t say shit that actually means anything!” I retort. “You just said yourself that the future is fluid. What does any of that mean, anyway?”

“You need not walk this path alone,” the Prophet says.

“I don’t see what you expect me to do, regardless,” I say. “I’m good at hitting things, sure, but for whatever history has said about me, I’m just a warrior.”

“Do not underestimate yourself or the role you are to play in these events. Come. Let us return to the Harborage. This stroll through my mind has made me weary I am certain that you have more questions.”

The mindscape vanishes in a flash of light and I find myself back in the probably-smuggler cave.

“Great, bye,” I say, and turn to leave the cave.

“Vestige, wait!”

“And dammit, my name is not Vestige! My name is Nerevar!”

“Please listen to me,” the Prophet says. “We still need to rescue Lyris.”

“From Coldharbour? You seriously want to send me back to Coldharbour!?”

“I will need to pinpoint her location first,” the Prophet says. “But you know it better than anyone except Cadwell.”

“I’m not going back to Coldharbour,” I say firmly.

“Not even to rescue Lyris?”

“You can’t make me go back there,” I say.

The Prophet sighs. “No, I cannot. But I must remind you that Molag Bal still has possession of your soul, so you remain tied to it regardless. If you truly wish to be free of him, you will need to reclaim your soul.”

“Okay, the matter of getting my soul back is definitely a more reasonable one than all your rambling about saving the world and your fantasy of defeating a god. I still don’t know how to do that, though.”

“I may be able to help,” the Prophet says. “But I will not leave Lyris to suffer under Molag Bal’s lash for long. Be assured that I will be able to bring you out of Coldharbour again, as well. You will not need to be there for long.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say. “No, wait, actually, I won’t think about it. Thinking about it is likely to make my stomach churn and my blood boil.”

“I understand that you fear the wrath of Molag Bal and are terrified at the prospect of returning to Coldharbour.”

“I’m not afraid,” I insist. “I just… don’t want to go back. That’s all. Not afraid at all. Nope. Not even slightly.”

“I see,” the Prophet says. “Of course. How foolish of me to suggest that a bold warrior such as yourself be afraid of a land of eternal torment that he cannot fight with a blade.”

I’m really, really, really not afraid of Coldharbour. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. (If I were to die in Coldharbour, would I still be drawn to a wayshrine on Nirn? Or would I just become trapped there again?)

“Look, I’m just a warrior,” I say. “If you need something hit, call on me to hit things. If you want me to go read things, you’ll need to give me some subjects to write down that I can look up, because I can’t remember half of what you glossed over back there. In there. Whatever.”

“I am certain that getting a broad spectrum of historical and societal knowledge would serve you well in your journeys,” the Prophet says. “But specifically you may wish to brush up on the history of the Empire of Cyrodiil.”

“Lucky for you, I’m currently on a quest to collect every interesting book in Tamriel that I find laying around for a friend I like a whole lot more than you. No offense. Not that I’m not grateful for you getting me out of Coldharbour in the first place, mind you. But you ask too much of me and you talk too much and you’re way too obsessed with destiny.”

“I understand,” the Prophet says. “And I cannot say that your ire is undeserved. Go, then. Leave me to rest. I must recover my strength and then attempt to find where Lyris is being held. She has been moved from the cell where she so bravely took my place, but I do not yet know to where. I fear for her mind and soul.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. I’m going to go way over there and not think about going back to Coldharbour. I don’t suppose you’ve got any moon sugar rum leftover, do you? Or are all these bottles empty?”

“I’m afraid I have no alcohol for you.”

“Drank it all? Yeah, don’t suppose I blame you. Alright. I’ll go get my own.” I pause. “I’ll go get some money to buy booze and then go get my own. No, wait, I’ll get some money to buy things that are more useful than booze and just swipe some booze from bandits or something. There’s probably plenty of bandits around here. These soft elves would be easy prey for criminals and thugs.”

“It would likely be a great help to people to protect them from that which threatens them, great and small,” the Prophet says. “Molag Bal might be too big of a target for you to handle, but Mannimarco and his Worm Cult threaten the land as well. I sense their machinations reaching far and wide, and they must be pulled out by the roots.”

“Cultists!” I say cheerfully. “Yes! Now there’s a problem I can deal with. Cultists can be hit in the face!” I pause. “Or anywhere else for that matter.”

“Yes,” the Prophet agrees wearily. “Yes, you can go root out the servants of darkness wherever they cause trouble throughout Tamriel.”

“So, you’re basically saying I should wander all over the place and solve everyone’s problems.”

“I suppose that would, indeed, suffice.”